


déjà vu

by delhuillier



Series: Crucible [5]
Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Morph!Kiran, Other, a single OC, genderless Kiran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 02:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delhuillier/pseuds/delhuillier
Summary: In the Order's retreat from Snjárhof after Gunnthrá's death, Leif sees echoes of his own history.Alternatively: It doesn't take long for Kiran to break the promise they made.





	1. surrender

To Leif, it all feels so unpleasantly familiar: once more, he is pursued by an implacable enemy and brutal occupier. He had only just joined the Order, called by Kiran from his home in Thracia, and already they are on the run, fleeing from Surtr and the all-consuming flames that follow him after the débâcle at Snjárhof.

Leif wants nothing more than to stand and fight. To see another country dominated as his had been wrenches at his heart, and he wishes he had the power to drive back the invaders, so that Princess Fjorm would no longer have to suffer the same pain he had for so long experienced after being driven from his home. But Kiran’s word is absolute, and so the Order, harried by Múspell scouts, retreats.

Under Kiran’s orders, the Order’s army split itself into five unequal parts. The bulk of the army had been divided evenly amongst forces tasked with protecting Alfonse, Sharena, Fjorm, and Anna, in hopes that at least one of them should be able to escape with their life; and the remainder, a mere four soldiers, had accompanied Kiran. Tana soars above their heads, swooping down every so often to direct them one way or another based on enemy positioning; Kiran rides side-saddle behind Priscilla, and Leif sits pillion behind Berkut, tense and alert, uncomfortably reminded of the other times he had fled with a knight who had used a lance.

No one speaks. Priscilla is so pale with anxiety she looks ill; Berkut does better at concealing his own worry, but it is betrayed in the sharp, jerky movements he uses to lead his horse. Leif understands their apprehension: though Kiran can perform the miracle of raising the dead, should their Divine Summoner be captured or worse, killed, then…

It does make him wonder, though, why Kiran had chosen to go without any significant protection. To be sure, it means that they can move faster than a larger group, but they have no way to defend themselves against a group of any reasonable size. So why—?

Tana and her pegasus crash suddenly to the snow before them, and Leif is startled from his thoughts as Priscilla and Berkut struggle to rein their horses in. He barely has time to note the arrows sticking from Tana’s throat and buried deep in her pegasus’ wings before soldiers step out from between the tree around them, as though appearing from nowhere. 

That may be more literal than he first thought: there had been no sign of these soldiers at _all_ before their appearance. No tell-tale clinking of armour or sound of breathing. Where had they come from?

A woman steps into Leif’s field of vision. She’s tall and impossibly beautiful, a marble statue that had had life breathed into it by the gods. She strides up to the four of them, all long-legged grace and calculated elegance, and smiles so, so sweetly.

Leif, though, is focussed not on her physical perfection, but on what he sees in her dark, dark eyes. They are untouched by the warmth of her smile; they have within them the arctic, barren cold of northern Silesse. 

“What luck,” she says, her voice surprisingly deep yet undeniably pleasant, like the slip of satin over skin, “to have caught the very person I wanted to see most in my little trap.” She laughs, as though sharing a private joke with herself. “Kiran, was it? At last we meet.”

“Loki,” Kiran says. They slide off the back of Priscilla’s horse and stand before her, a guttering candle before a roaring flame.

“You were so convinced you were running away,” Loki says, “when all you were doing is running in circles, thanks to my illusions. All we had to do was walk up.” She smirks, and the expression is just as alluring as she is. “Not a particularly impressive demonstration of your tactical prowess, my dear Summoner.”

“Base trickery is all you have, witch,” Berkut growls, but at a look from Kiran, he quiets. 

“Trickery perhaps it is, but _I_ have the advantage here, do I not?” Loki says in high humour. “In any case, I haven’t the time to waste on the rest of you.” She turns her gaze on Kiran once more. “Kiran, let us make a deal.”

Kiran nods, the barest inclining of their head.

“I’m glad to see you so amenable,” Loki says. Businesslike, she continues: “I will let your toy soldiers go, Kiran. _All_ of them, not just these four you have here. For you have me to thank that Múspell has not yet set upon your precious prince and his allies—my illusions know not friend or foe.” She smirks. “Yes, I will let them all go— _if_ you agree to come quietly.”

Oh, this is too familiar indeed. And Leif dreads what Kiran might say.

“Yes,” Kiran says. “I will.”

“I knew you’d agree,” Loki says. “You pretend to be so cold, but I know otherwise. In war, even something like you can be forged into something new.”

Kiran simply closes their eyes; Loki shrugs, and then her smile vanishes in an instant, the cold in her eyes spreading to the rest of her flawless face. She waves her soldiers forward. “Take them.”

“No,” Leif says. He shakes Berkut’s shoulder. He’s thinking of all the people he had to leave behind as he ran, and ran, and _ran_ from Raydrik and the Empire. “No, we can’t leave them. They’re going to die.”

“We can, and we will, boy,” Berkut snarls. “Now hold your tongue before you get us all killed.”

Kiran turns, even as a Múspell soldier lays their gauntleted hand on their shoulder. “Berkut,” they say, before Berkut can spur his horse away. Berkut heeds them, turning his head to listen. “...Tell Alfonse...I’m sorry.”

The Múspell soldiers close in around them. And Leif, Priscilla, and Berkut run. Again, Leif thinks, he runs. Again, someone gives up their freedom and their life, for him and for others. He’d sworn never to let this very thing happen again, and already, he’d broken that vow.

No. No, it doesn’t have to be broken, not yet. There’s still a chance—as long as Kiran still breathes, there’s still a chance.

“We’ll come back for you!” he calls to Kiran. Though he knows them hardly at all, he knows well the crushing guilt of having someone sacrifice themselves for you. And he will not, if he can help it, allow those who hold Kiran dear to experience that terrible agony. “I swear it! Wait for us!”

May the gods keep Kiran safe, just a little longer.

=

The guards aren’t gentle. They look for every excuse to mete out punishments—not that Kiran, quiet and obedient as they are, gives them many. Nevertheless, the guards make do: When Kiran is delivered to Loki once more, back at Múspell’s main camp, a bruise shadows their left eye, and they’re bleeding from a split in their lip and from a gash on their forehead where one of the guards’ gauntlets had caught at their skin.

Loki, in front of a mirror she’d had specially brought from Múspell, makes them wait. A streak of blood—called that only because there is no other word for it—reaches the white collar of Kiran’s cloak and like ink on a white tablecloth spreads further, but Kiran doesn’t move, even as the too-dark, too-thick fluid comes perilously close to one of their eyes.

Finally, Loki turns. “Oh, look what they’ve done to you,” she says. “You poor, poor thing.”

She seems to expect an answer, but they give her nothing, keeping their silence. Loki’s hand comes up, and she traces a long finger down Kiran’s cheek. Still, Kiran remains unmoved. Perhaps their eyes have shifted a little, to take in Loki better, but that’s all.

The way Loki’s watching them changes, subtly, acquires an intent edge that echoes the rapt attention a predator gives to a pinned prey. With the same ghost of a smile on her face, she carefully digs one of her nails into the gash on Kiran’s forehead, grinding it with vicious force into the broken skin. 

Kiran does not react at all. 

Loki frowns at this, and her lips purse as her interest quickly begins to wane. She wipes her finger on Kiran’s cloak, leaving a streak of inky blackness, and turns away, calling her staff to her hand with a gesture.

“How boring,” she muses. “Is it that you do not feel pain? Or that you can tolerate much of it? Or is it even that you _do_ feel it, yet do not react to it because you weren’t _designed_ to?”

Kiran is silent still. And Loki, who relishes taking and twisting the words her opponents use in order to break them, is left weaponless. A faint shadow of annoyance passes quickly across her face—a cloud momentarily interposing itself in front of the summer sun.

“Truly a pity,” Loki says. “They did tell me you were like this, you know. Our soldiers. That all you knew how to do was lead an army.” She sighs, shaking her head, playing at disappointment. “But to find you are as broken as this—though _incomplete_ would perhaps be a better word to use.”

She sighs. “But I’ve been distracted. Kiran, you have Breidablik, do you not?” She clicks her fingers. “Give it to me.”

This, at last, triggers a response in her prisoner. Kiran looks up at her and says, flatly, “No.”

“No? Oh, Kiran,” Loki says, and the grin that slices across her face in that moment suggests refusal is just what she hoped to hear. “Oh, Kiran, do we want to do this the hard way? Or—”

“I do not have it,” Kiran says, and there’s a flash of something like amusement in their face. “I gave it to Alfonse for safekeeping before our retreat.”

Loki is, for a moment, speechless, but she quickly recovers. “Clever,” she says, with a sneer, “very clever. Inconvenient, too, of course. And perhaps there’s a lesson for me in here somewhere, if I could be bothered to look for it.”

She calls her staff to her hand

“But Kiran, tell me...” she continues, and suddenly her face seems carved from ice, and her voice seems like the frigid winds that howl over the Niflian tundra. “Tell me, without Breidablik, what, exactly, is the point of you?”

With brutal suddenness, she brings the staff around, quicker than the human eye could ever follow. Loki is stunning, miles of exquisite flesh untouched by the hardships of the road or of battle—she is a woman who seems as though she has never and would never resort to something as crass as the sword or her fists when she has her magic. Yet the blow has enough force behind it to knock Kiran off their feet.

They fall badly, head striking the ground with a sickening thud. Loki watches them, amused.

They push themselves up, and spit a mess of black fluid and shattered teeth onto the ground, along with a gobbet of their tongue, bitten through when Loki struck them. Severed from the source of power that holds Kiran together, the fluid and flesh and teeth immediately begin to decay, dissolving into a fine dust that smells faintly of yew. They struggle to rise, but their arms fold underneath them, and their injured face drops into the dirt once more. Loki clicks her tongue, unsatisfied.

She swoops down, gathers a handful of their hair in one hand and yanks them to their feet. This time, tears well from Kiran’s eyes, though their expression doesn’t change. 

Loki’s smile is vicious. “Aha,” she purrs, wiping the tears away with the back of a hand, like a gentle mother. “You _do_ feel something. You’re just shoddy construction, that’s all. A little marionnette that doesn’t work quite right.”

Loki releases them, and Kiran sways a little before their eyes go unfocused, unseeing, and they crumple to the ground for a third time, robbed of the strength to stand.

Loki turns her back on them, paces back to her mirror. “I suppose your role is fairly specialized,” she says, carding the fingers of one hand through her soft hair. “So everything else is unnecessary. Your poor prince and princess. I wonder if you can even comprehend how much you hurt them by being this way. Unable to give friendship, and love…

“But I don’t think they’ll have to worry about that much longer. I suppose I’ll have to dispose of you, and then we can be on our way.”

She turns back to face them, looking down on them from on high. “Yes, I think that disposing of you would be best.”

=

Leif watches Alfonse’s face crumple after Berkut gives him the news; the Askran prince has to turn away, pressing a hand to his mouth, to hide his grief. “Godsdamn them,” he grinds out in a shaking voice. He casts a despairing glance towards Breidablik, sitting peacefully on one of the army packs. “No wonder they gave me...oh, gods. I’m so—so damned _stupid_ —”

Berkut averts his gaze, face stony and set, deigning to give Alfonse the momentary illusion of privacy. It doesn’t take long for Alfonse to recover himself, and he turns back to Berkut and Leif, his expression carefully controlled, his sadness and anger revealed only through his tightly-clenched fists.

“Was there anything else they said?”

“They wanted me to give you an apology,” Berkut says. “I...presume you know what they meant.”

Alfonse flinches, sucking in a sharp breath as though wounded, but offers no explanation.

Watching Alfonse come apart, piece by piece, only renews Leif’s determination to do what he had promised Kiran. So when the two of them are dismissed by Alfonse, who no doubt wishes for a moment alone, Leif instead remains behind. He waits for Berkut to leave, and when that’s done, he steps forward.

He hasn’t yet martialled the words he wants to say in the order he wants to say them, so instead he settles first for a greeting. “Prince Alfonse?”

Alfonse conceals his irritation well. “Prince Leif, yes? Well met.” He sighs. “I do apologise that we haven’t yet had time to welcome you into the Order properly, but I...really would like a moment to myself now. You understand.”

“I...I know that I have only recently arrived, and I know that you may not trust me, but…” Leif takes a breath. “I wanted to apologise personally. When the soldiers came for Kiran—I could have done more. No, I _should_ have done more. Please, forgive me.”

Alfonse’s expression softens slightly. “Prince Leif, I assure you—there is nothing to apologise for.”

“But there is!” Leif protests. “There is. I have a sword—I could have fought. But I didn’t, and yet again… Prince Alfonse, I am intimately familiar with the feeling of having someone give up their life in exchange for yours. I—”

“Peace, Prince Leif,” Alfonse says. “There’s nothing you could have done. Really.”

“Well, if not then, then let me do something now,” Leif says. “I can get them back for you. No—I _will_ get them back for you. Though I am new to the Order, I know that we need the Summoner—and I can see _you_ need them, too, back by your side.”

“No,” Alfonse says. “No. Aside from the fact that I am not the Order’s commander, we cannot risk more losses now. We must go on.” He looks at Breidablik again, and then back at Leif. “...We must go on. That’s what Kiran would want. That’s why—that’s why they stayed behind.”

Leif can’t stand hearing this—this ugly resignation, so poisonous, so insidious. “Prince Alfonse, I have seen this all before. I had to run from my homeland in the dead of night—I fled the castle that was my home, and I abandoned the people I was meant to protect. That guilt I feel for betraying my people so, it’s like...an arrowhead lodged in my chest, and it digs at me, day in and day out. I will _not_ let you go down that path when I know it is the wrong one.”

Alfonse is stunned. Reasonably so, Leif thinks—anyone would be, to have a stranger berating you like this. But it needs to be done. “Prince Leif, I…”

“If you let me go, I _will_ prevail,” Leif says, even though he’s not sure if he can. “I will bring Kiran back. I just know I can do it.” He brings his fist to his chest. “ _We_ can do it.”

Alfonse shuts his eyes briefly, and takes a deep, deep breath. He opens them again, and looks at his hands. And slowly, slowly, they clench into fists.

When he looks up at Leif, his eyes are filled with a fragile resolve. “You’re right. You’re...you’re right, Prince Leif. I don’t know why I didn’t...we’re supposed to be different from Múspell. We can’t throw away lives like this.”

He straightens his back, and in that moment looks not like a prince, but like a king. “I’ll talk to Anna about letting you go, Prince Leif,” Alfonse says. “And if she allows it, I’ll be coming with you.”


	2. reunited

“But a war ended too soon is just so boring,” Loki muses. “And I’ve worked so hard to keep its flame burning.” Indeed, this was not a lie. It was Loki who had allowed Gunnthrá to escape on the eve of Nifl’s fall, letting her play out a leash she didn’t know she was wearing, and it was Loki who had contrived for Surtr to find the eldest Nifl princess at Snjárhof so that Gunnthrá could reveal just enough—but not too much—for the Askrans to believe still they had a fighting chance. As long as they have hope, the Askrans will still fight on, even against an enemy they see as invincible.

“And this way I can send a message to your master.” She bends down near Kiran, and says, “Did you hear that, little simulacrum? I will allow you to continue to exist a while longer. In fact…” She chuckles to herself. “I do believe that in about three minutes or so a patrol will pass my tent—and it will be another ten before a second one comes by. You _do_ understand what that means, don’t you?”

Kiran lifts their head. Then, slowly, still unsteadied by the blow they’d taken to the head, they get to their feet. 

Loki smirks and pats their head like she would a child. “I knew you’d understand,” she says. “Or, perhaps, is it your master doing the understanding for you? Feeding you instructions based on what he hears and sees through your ears and eyes?” The smirk turns cruel. “Puppet, then, would be an especially apt title.”

Kiran offers no defence. Instead, they close their eyes and listen for the patrol.

“When you return to your master,” Loki says, “tell him this: I’m coming for him. And this time, I’ll make sure he _stays_ dead.”

And Kiran opens their eyes, and they say in a voice not their own, “Consider your message received, Loki. But I don’t think you should be making declarations of war when you have lost so much of your power.”

Loki’s smile disappears; if looks could kill, Kiran would be long gone. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Kiran’s lip curls, but they say nothing more. The patrol passes by, and as the sounds of armour and the huffing breathing of horses recedes, Kiran departs, as quick and as silent as a winter shadow.

Loki faces the mirror once more, looks herself up and down. “Though if an escape is too easy,” she murmurs after a moment, “is that really any less boring than a war brought to a premature end?”

She smiles to herself. And then, as though applying powder to her face, she pats her left cheek; where her fingers touch, bruises blossom, staining her skin like ink dropped into a puddle of water. Working with precision, she gives herself a black eye, cuts and scrapes on her arms, a bleeding gash in her belly.

Loki goes to the front flap of her tent. She waits there, still and silent, for a few minutes, listening to the movement of the camp around her, and then takes a breath and pushes the tent flap aside.

“Guards!” she cries. “The prisoner has escaped!”

=

Kiran _can_ feel pain. That is, they know when it is happening, and what is causing it. But unlike humans, the connexion between the parts of their body that register physical pain and their mind had been judged unnecessary and ripped out by their master—so though they can tell when pain is occurring, when they are being hurt, it doesn’t feel like the pain is theirs at all. They are insulated from it, protected by their own body: a body broken in specific, precise ways so they can better serve their creator.

(What, exactly, is the point of you?)

Their master’s voice comes to them again. It is, as always, quiet, a whisper on the wind.

_She’s right, Kiran. You are and always will be worthless without the weapon I created you to wield. So we must try to get you back to it before you freeze to death, I suppose._

Kiran pushes on through the snow, Breidablik their beacon. As they move, they note, dispassionately, fatigue, compromised balance, and a growing headache. Lingering effects from the blow to their head.

They are aware that it is highly unlikely they will rejoin Askr’s army, especially if the Order is on the move, as they must assume it is. No matter how clear and focussed their mind remains, if their own body starts to fail and they cannot catch up to the army, there is nothing that can be done. Yet shielded from exhaustion as they are against physical pain and pulled on by their master, they will keep going, and going, until they work themselves to death or until they by some miracle reach safety.

That they still exist makes little sense to them. The logical thing for their master to do would be to deconstruct them here and push the Askrans to create a second Kiran back with the main body of the army; that way, summoning can begin again, and the Askran war effort is not hampered.

Yet here they are. Perhaps their master sees some value in the affection Alfonse holds for them? In the strange friendship they share with Sharena? Kiran can only see that as nonsensical—the second Kiran would be no different from them now, as long as their master recreates them exactly. To be sure, memories would not be carried over, but does that matter?

(Alfonse said it did, didn’t he?)

Loki’s cry reaches their sensitive ears. Immediately, they tug the hood of their cloak up—the gold trim is an inconvenience, but white against the white of the snow will make it harder for Múspell’s wyvern riders to see them—and start to move faster.

There is a very real possibility that they may never see Alfonse again. They shy away from that thought, focussing on putting one foot in front of the other and on listening for the approach of enemy soldiers, but it lurks in the background, ominous, prowling back and forth like a predator readying itself to pounce.

_There may be a way for you to escape._

How?

_It just so happens that this world has drifted close to another, for the time being. Perhaps you might take advantage of that opportunity._

...Why tell me this?

It doesn’t make sense. Their master ought to have discarded them as soon as they’d fallen into enemy hands with little hope of retrieval. And now he’s helping them?

In any case, their master offers no answers. Not that Kiran needs or wants any, because they’re not supposed to need or want anything. And they understand what to do now.

Every month or so, Zenith comes close enough to another world in the multiverse that Kiran can open a gateway between that world and this one. Unlike the portals that the Askran royal family by right of blood can open, these ones are temporary at best, and can only be created at those very specific times—when the ship of Zenith is carried near to those other worlds by the spatiotemporal currents. Kiran uses these gateways, at the direction of their master, to bind Heroes that, for some reason or another, cannot be summoned. Berkut, Michalis, Ursula. Others.

Knowing that using the power gifted them by their master always has consequences, Kiran comes to a halt and prepares to use it. Closing their eyes, the feel for the boundaries of this world and the other, and once they have them, they craft a bridge in their mind, spinning its contours out of pure magic. They take a breath, and then cast the spell.

The air itself is ripped asunder, forming a jagged opening that hangs in the air, only just large enough to accomodate a horse or pegasus or wyvern and their riders. Visible only from the front and thus easily missable from the air, the tear may provide an escape—or it may just lead to Kiran being cornered in another world. At the very least, they might find momentary refuge to rest, recuperate, and decide how best to try and reach Askr’s army.

But the backlash from the spell is far more intense that Kiran thought it would be, and enervated, Kiran staggers through the portal, into a grassy meadow by rolling waters. They make it a few metres more, and then collapse, their body betraying them, weakened irrevocably by constant use of their master’s power over the past year.

They roll onto their back and squint up at the sun, high above. It’s warm on their face, like the palm of Alfonse’s hand.

This hadn’t been a good idea at all. But then, they hadn’t really comprehended just how much they’d deteriorated since the beginning—because that isn’t supposed to matter to them. If their master requires that they destroy themselves by doing their duty, so be it.

So...be it.

(Does it really have to be that way?)

The last thing they see before unconsciousness claims them are soldiers whose armour they do not recognise, and a slim young man with fiery red hair.

=

Commander Anna had allowed Leif and Alfonse to turn back to try and rescue Kiran, with the stipulation that they should abandon the operation if there is _any_ risk of taking more losses. “We are currently down a Summoner, you two,” she’d said. “I need you to be _careful_. Without Kiran, death is final. Do you understand?”

Of course, their caution had lasted until they reached Múspell territory. Once they’d crossed that border, and seen the wyverns circling the sky like carrion crows, obviously searching for someone—“Did Kiran _escape_?” Alfonse wondered—they decided to press on no matter what might come their way.

They’re an odd little group, Leif thinks. There’s him and Alfonse, Fjorm (who had pulled Alfonse aside after the two of them had left Anna’s tent and insisted on coming in a way that brooked no argument); there’s Berkut, and riding behind him, Corrin, who had exchanged his sword for a bow—a strange choice, but it had allowed him to shoot down Múspell wyvern riders who made the mistake of soaring too close. There’s Princess Sharena, dressed in a rabbit costume—of all things.

And then there’s Grima. Arrogant and powerful, Julius in all but name. He tears into Múspell soldiers unlucky enough to cross the path of their group, and leaves nothing of them behind save their blood on the snow. Truly, it is because of him that they can be so incautious: his towering strength overwhelms all.

Now, though, they are clustered around a strange patch of air that Alfonse says is important. It’s nearer the Múspell camp than Leif is comfortable with, but Grima keeps watch, wearing a hungry expression that seems to _dare_ Múspell soldiers to appear to try to attack him.

“Tell me again what this is all about?” Leif asks. He leans one way, then the other, watching in fascination as the image of a sunny world beyond flickers like a reflection on a soap bubble. A world that seems terribly familiar.

“Kiran can create pathways to other worlds,” Alfonse says. “I’ve seen this before—this is exactly what happens when they make one. We use them to—ah—recruit Heroes from other worlds.”

Leif hears Berkut snort derisively, but after Corrin lays a hand on his shoulder, the prince does not elucidate on what that might mean. 

“Then…” Leif brightens. “Then if this is here—”

“Exactly,” Alfonse says. He and Fjorm share a glance; he’s more serious than Leif expected him to be, given that Kiran might be just through this doorway. “There is one problem, however. We usually meet with...difficult battles on the other side of these. I fear that—”

“Well, that’s all the more reason to hurry!” Leif exclaims. “Kiran may have escaped Múspell, but if they’re in that other world, they could be risking their lives right now, especially if what you say is true. If we have to fight, we have to fight.”

Alfonse considers that, and then nods decisively. “Very well. Then fight we shall.”

They pass through the portal, one after the other. Leif has barely time to note the shocking familiarity of the world they’d come to before they’re set upon by soldiers. Berkut rides out to meet a sword cavalier, and unseats him with a contemptuous blow from his lance. As the cavalier falls, Corrin swings off Berkut’s horse and finishes the swordsman with an arrow held, and used, like a dagger. Then, as Berkut reins in his horse by his side, Corrin nocks his bow, takes a moment to aim, and releases; the eye of an approaching mage cavalier fills with wood and feathers, and they sag, lifeless, from the saddle.

On Leif’s other side, Grima moves forward, step by threatening step, to meet an archer and a wyvern rider. He calls forth the head of his true, draconic form; it bursts from his shadow with a terrible roar, and breathes a corrupting darkness that consumes the archer before he has a chance to even draw his bow. The wyvern rider manages to wound him—she gashes his stomach, succeeding only in making Grima laugh—and soon joins her comrade in death.

By the end of it, all they have before them are the corpses of the common soldiers; the enemy commander, and more importantly, Kiran, are nowhere in sight. “We go on towards the castle!” Alfonse orders. “With me!”

Leif joins him. With such strong Heroes around him, all Leif can do is hope that they will find Kiran, whole and healthy, in the castle that waits beyond.

=

Saias enters the room in which Kiran had been held, and sits in the chair by their bed. “It seems your companions have breached my defences,” he says, after a moment.

Kiran knew this already. Their senses, far sharper than those of a human’s, had conveyed to them the sounds of battle—Grima’s roars, Berkut’s battle cries.

Alfonse’s voice.

“I’m sorry,” they say. They don’t know why.

Saias smiles. “Sorry? I admit, I didn’t expect to hear that from an alleged invader from another world. Sorry for what, exactly? Being so precious to your comrades that they would willingly enter battle for you? Some would envy you that.”

“...That’s not true,” Kiran says. The words spill out before they can stop them. “I’m...useful to them. That’s all.”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” Saias says. He stands, smoothing down his robes, and then gives Kiran a considering look. “You know, I was inclined to trust the woman who informed me of your malicious intentions, especially when I received reports of an attacking force that had ‘appeared out of thin air.’ But now that I look at you—you can’t even stand, can you, you’re so weak—I find myself doubting the story she gave me.”

_It was too convenient, wasn’t it,_ Kiran’s master whispers in their ear.

“It was too convenient, wasn’t it,” Kiran repeats.

Saias nods. “My thoughts exactly. I cannot say what motive she had, but I am beginning to feel as though this battle has little point.” He offers Kiran a hand. “Would you come with me? I believe I will need your help in stopping this needless conflict.”

Kiran stares at that hand, then at Saias. “I…”

“Don’t worry. We’ll walk together. I will lend you my shoulder for as long as you need it.”

There are many reasons why Kiran shouldn’t trust Saias at that moment: this could be a ploy involving Kiran as a hostage, this could be part of a much grander scheme that might end in Alfonse’s death. But something about Saias—his calm demeanour, his gentle way of speaking—puts those doubts out of Kiran’s mind.

So they take Saias’ hand. “Alfonse,” they say. “The commander’s name...should be Alfonse.”

“Duly noted,” Saias smiles. “My, you are light, aren’t you? Just a little scrap of a thing. I’ve no idea how she managed to convince me you were a threat.”

Kiran closes their eyes, and focusses on walking.

=

The first thing Fjorm does, after peace has been established, is walk up to Kiran and hit them, as hard as she can. It’s no open-handed slap or backhanded strike—it’s a punch, thrown by a gauntleted fist. It stuns Leif, renders him speechless in the middle of introducing himself to Saias—this Saias, rather. Not the Saias from his world.

“You’re a damn fool, Kiran,” she says.

Alfonse is at her side in an instant. “Fjorm, what on earth—?”

“Not now, Alfonse,” Fjorm, and when he tries to pull her back, “I said not now!” She gets to her knees by where Kiran has fallen and grips their shoulders tightly. “How _could_ you?” she asks. “Kiran, how could you? Right after my sister died? You saw what that did to me, didn’t you? And you would make Alfonse go through the same torment I did? How dare you.”

Kiran says nothing. They don’t even cradle their face like they’re in pain. Instead, they just stare at the floor.

“Fjorm,” Alfonse whispers to her, “I…as much as I may agree with what you’re saying, you didn’t need to _hit_ them. They’re already weak enough as it is.”

“I did,” Fjorm says. “I did, because I wanted them to know I’ve had _enough_ of sacrifices. My mother, my sister...Kiran, too? Who next, then? You, Alfonse? Sharena? No. _No._ I won’t allow it.”

Leif’s heart goes out to her. He understands well the feeling of powerlessness watching someone sacrifice themselves for you might give you. 

Fjorm has started to cry, now, her anger extinguished by a flood of sorrow, and so she pulls herself up and turns away from the group to hide her tears. Alfonse doesn’t seem to know what to do for a moment—go to Fjorm to comfort her? Go to Kiran?—but he eventually decides to approach Kiran instead after Fjorm gestures jerkily for him to leave her be.

He takes the divine relic, Breidablik, and holds it out for Kiran to take. Kiran does.

“Never let it go again,” Alfonse says softly.

Kiran looks at Breidablik, and then up at Alfonse. “Alfonse, you...you know I can’t...you that I’m going to...”

“What did _I_ promise you on the anniversary of your arrival? That we’d figure it out.” Alfonse smiles. “And unlike you, I intend to keep my promises.”

Alfonse drops to his knees, and the two of them clasp each other tightly in their arms, as though terrified the other will disappear. Neither of them say a word, and yet it seems more intimate to Leif than any extravagant romantic gesture.

Leif looks away, flushing slightly, embarrassed for having intruded on such a private moment.

“It seems I truly did misunderstand,” Saias says quietly to Leif. “If I had but known…my deepest apologies. Kiran must be dear to you and yours, Prince Leif.”

“Ah, you know my name?”

“Of course,” Saias says. “There are precious few who haven’t heard of you. Well, not you, specifically, if I understand the talk of many worlds right.”

“Yes, we’re from different worlds—and it’s complicated for me, too, believe me,” Leif says. “I still can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that there are so many other worlds out there. And the fact I might meet another me.”

“It _is_ fascinating,” Saias says. “Tell me, Prince Leif, does your army have room for one more? I realise that a humble clergyman may not have much to offer, but I...wish to atone for my sins committed here—for allowing myself to be deceived, and for turning weapons on those who had committed no crimes.”

“Humble clergyman? You, the archbishop of Velthomer? The genius tactician?” Leif grins. “Well, I’m not the commander, but I’m sure we’d love to have you.”

Saias smiles. “Excellent.”

And looking out at it all—at Kiran and Alfonse reunited, at Fjorm and Sharena—Leif can only feel relief. Everyone’s all right. That’s all he could have asked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was welded together from two different responses to two different writing prompts on r/fireemblemheroes: one about the World of Thracia characters, and one about the team you used for Saias' GHB. Hence the character choices, which might seem a little odd.
> 
> I also haven't actually played Thracia—I only know Leif and Saias through Heroes, and through reading Thracia's script on Serenes Forest—so hopefully they don't seem _too_ OOC.


End file.
